


Disarm My Heart

by teacuphuman



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Arthur's into it, Eames is shameless, First Meetings, Flirting, Happy Ending, M/M, customer support, light internet stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 10:34:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28469886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuphuman/pseuds/teacuphuman
Summary: Eames keeps setting off his new house alarm just to talk to the guy on the other end of the line.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 130
Collections: Secret Saito 2020





	Disarm My Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kate_the_reader](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/gifts).



> This fic is my Secret Saito gift for Kate, who is wonderful and amazing, and whom I miss a ton! This one had a mind of its own while I wrote, but I hope you enjoy it!

1.

“This is Charles from Cobol Security Systems,” Arthur states calmly when his call is answered. The response binder is open in front of him, but he’s worked the support line long enough to know the spiel. “We’re detecting a sensor breach, do you require emergency assistance?”

“Bloody fucking cocksucker,” is the response, spoken in a heavily lilted accent over the shriek of the alarm. There’s banging on the other end of the line, then the squeal of metal on metal.

Arthur looks around, but no one seems to be listening in to his call. Still, everything gets recorded, so laughing is out of the question.

“Sir? Do you require emergency assistance?” he repeats, fingers hovering over the direct emergency response line.

“No, godammit, hold on,” the man pants, grumbling under his breath as Arthur does as he’s asked. Suddenly, the alarm cuts off. “Sorry ‘bout that, love. All fixed.” 

Arthur glances at the system’s panel, seeing that the sensor alarm has gone dark. He squints at the screen. 

“Code word?” he demands, finger now  _ on _ the direct ER line.

“Collywobbles,” the man responds easily, and Arthur relaxes. “Sorry to be a bother. Forgot my keys and thought I’d slip in through a window.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “I need to fill out an incident report for your file.”

“Are you serious? It was just a window opening,” the man laughs. 

“Sir, when you signed your contract, you agreed to—”

“Alright, alright, but stop calling me ‘Sir’ for god’s sake.”

“What would you prefer I call you?” Arthur asks before he can stop himself, and it comes out in his own voice, not his work voice. His own voice is deeper, words spoken faster and less pronounced.

He gets a low chuckle in response. “You can call me whatever you like, darling.”

“Mister,” he glances at the screen. “Eames, can you confirm which window you opened?”

“All work and no play makes Chuck a dull boy,” Eames teases. “East side, second floor.”

“You tried to break in through a second-story window?” he questions, cursing himself as soon as the words are out. He’s not here to be social or judge, he’s here to report and support. It says so on the wall above the water cooler.

“I like a challenge,” Eames dismisses. “Is Charles your actual name?”

The personal question throws him a little, but he recovers quickly. “Is the sensor in working order or is a replacement needed?”

“Ah, I may have damaged it in my haste to silence the alarm,” Eames confesses. “Am I in trouble?”

Arthur sighs. “The schematics list a control panel in the next room. You could have input your code and silenced it that way.”

“Bit hard to think logically when there’s a bloody siren going off,” Eames grumbles.

“Logical would have been remembering your keys,” Arthur tells him wryly, and Eames rewards him with another chuckle. He has no idea why he’s talking to this man like he knows him. It’s against protocol and if they audit his calls, Ariadne in HR will have a field day. He chalks it up to matching the client’s tone to keep them calm and hopes it will be enough to save his ass if he needs it to.

“Not going to live that down, am I?”

Arthur bites back a smile. “Plan on needing our services often so I can remind you of it?”

“Ask me nicely and we’ll see,” he purrs and Arthur sits back. What the hell is he doing? 

“I need to finish my report, Mr. Eames,” Arthur tells him, slipping back into his work voice. “I need you to take a picture of the sensor and send it in so I can attach it to your file. A security engineer will be out to replace it in the next hour.”

“I don’t suppose you’re a security engineer,” Eames muses. “Do I send this to you personally, or?”

“Email it to the address on the panel,” he chides. “Once we have it, I’ll write the ticket. Is there anything else I can help you with before I go?”

“No,” Eames sighs, seeming to understand that playtime is over. “Thank you, darling.”

“Good day, Mr. Eames.”

When the picture comes through ten minutes later, there’s a green sticky note beside the mangled window sensor with ‘Oops!’ written in black sharpie and Arthur can’t help but feel charmed.

2.

“This is Charles from Cobol Security Systems. We’re detecting a sensor breach. Do you require emergency assistance?”

“I might,” Eames answers. “Nicked myself on the broken glass.”

Arthur scans the sensor board, noting a window’s silent alarm going off. The man had set off his alarms daily for the first two weeks, almost exclusively when Arthur was on duty and available to speak to him. It’s not uncommon for new clients to need time adapting such a sophisticated security system, but when Eames does it, he asks a question after question about everything under the sun, none of which have to do with his system. The one time Eames set it off when Arthur wasn’t working, he muttered his code word and silenced it himself before hanging up. 

“Do you need an ambulance?”

“Not if you come kiss it better,” Eames jokes. 

“I’m sorry sir, that’s only included in our Platinum package and you only pay for Gold,” Arthur tells him, smiling even though Eames can’t see him. “But seriously, do you need an ambulance?”

“Nah, I’m good. Tis but a scratch.”

“See, now I feel like I should call the coroner,” Arthur says, smiling when Eames laughs.

“I’m fine, I promise,” Eames assures him, the sound of running water in the background. “A plaster should do it.”

“Code word?” Arthur asks once the water is off.

“Eyjafjallajökull.”

“Could you spell that for me?” Arthur teases.

Eames laughs. “Nope.”

“Can you confirm which window broke?”

“A sharp one,” Eames grouses. “Basement, northwest facing.”

Arthur frowns at the schematic. There’s no sensor on that window and he should open a message window to his supervisor immediately, but he doesn’t. “Are you sure?”

“I haven’t lost that much blood,” Eames tells him with a scoff.

“I’m showing no sensor on that window,” Arthur explains carefully. “If that’s the one that’s broken, I’m going to have to schedule a review of the whole—”

“No, no,” Eames interjects tiredly. “No need for that.”

“Mr. Eames, if there’s an issue with the mapping of your property and sensors, it could void your insurance. If something were to happen—”

“I was wrong,” he insists with a laugh. “Maybe I have lost that much blood. It’s the southwest basement window.”

“You’re sure?” Arthur asks.

“Absolutely. The sight of blood got me turned around. I’m not nearly as brave in real life as I am over the phone,” Eames jokes.

“You called in last week because there was a spider in your sink,” Arthur reminds him, typing in the code for the southwest window. “Does the sensor need replacing?”

“Ah, nope.”

Arthur frowns again. “If the window broke, it probably needs replacing.”

“I don’t want it replaced,” Eames tells him.

“Mr. Eames,” Arthur sighs. “You pay for the highest level of customer support and security. Replacing sensors when they’re broken is part of the service. I can have someone out there in an hour.”

“No thank you,” Eames answers primly.

Arthur shakes his head at his screen, interest peaked by the man’s unpredictability. “Why pay for the service if you’re not going to use it?”

“Haven’t you figured that out yet, darling? Because I get to talk to you.”

The photo Eames sends in this time is of the cracked windowpane, a Rapunzel bandage wrapped around his thumb’s up.

3.

“Cobol Security Systems, this is Charles. How can I assist you?” Arthur rambles automatically as soon as he picks up his phone.

“You sound like a dreary recording,” Eames complains in his ear, and Arthur feels the tension drain out of his shoulders. 

“How would you prefer I sound, Mr. Eames?” he asks playfully, having decided the best way to figure out Eames’ angle is to play along.

“Breathless,” Eames purrs and Arthur rolls his eyes despite the image it conjures. 

“Want me to run up and down the stairs a few times so you can call back?”

Eames laughs for a long time, his voice going high, and Arthur wonders idly if Eames is worth getting written up for.

“What can I help you with today, Mr. Eames?” he asks, sitting back in his chair.

“Back to business already, darling?”

“You called me this time,” Arthur reminds him. “If not for business, then what?”

Eames hums, and Arthur wishes he could feel it through the phone. “My panel lights have gone dark.”

“What did you do to it?” Arthur asks, already typing up a report.

“Why do you think I had something to do with it?” Eames demands, sounding petulant. Arthur doesn’t answer, just waits him out, and after a minute, Eames sighs loudly. “Fine, I left it open and knocked the damn thing off the wall.”

“Why did you have it open?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” Eames complains, and there’s something in his tone that makes Arthur sit up straighter. 

“Do you have something to hide, Mr. Eames?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Eames chuckles darkly. “For you, I’m an open book.”

Arthur can feel the flush on his cheeks, and he curses himself for being so easy to ruffle. Eames isn’t real, he reminds himself. He doesn’t mean it. 

“More like a Mad Lib if you ask me,” he says, playing along yet again.

“What about you? Do I get to know anything about you, darling?”

Arthur frowns. “Knowing about me won’t improve your customer support experience.”

“I think I should be the judge of that,” Eames argues. “What’s your real name?”

“I don’t have one,” Arthur teases, leaning further into his work space so no one overhears. “I’m a dreary recording, remember?”

“Hmm, anyway I can personalize your greeting then?”

Arthur’s neck goes warm and he should open a window to alert his supervisor about Eames’ behaviour, but he’s not because it’s been so long since someone has made him flush. He thought he’d forgotten how.

“I can’t give you my name, that’s practically rule number one,” he explains quietly.

“What about your number?” Eames presses, voice dropping to match Arthur’s.

“Rule number two.” 

“What if I give you mine?” Eames offers, shocking him.

Arthur chuckles. “I have it. I call you every time you set off your alarm.”

“I have another number. A private one.”

Arthur pauses. Eames sounds sincere, but despite all their conversations, he’s still a complete stranger.

“Do you give that number out a lot?” Arthur challenges.

There’s a pause and Arthur shakes his head, unsurprised.

“Occasionally,” Eames admits slowly. “To certain people.”

“Then you should probably ask one of those certain people to call you on it,” Arthur tells him, and disconnects the call. He’s stupid and embarrassed, and there’s no way he won’t hear from Ariadne for that conversation.

His report comes back approved, the picture attached showing a completely mangled home panel and a blue post-it with  _ Forgive me _ written in sharpie.

4.

“Arthur,” Ariadne says in that disapproving voice she saves for occasions like these.

“Ariadne,” he says with a smile. He knows he won’t deter her, but half the fun is trying.

“Do we need to reassign Mr. Eames’ account?”

Arthur pretends to think about it. “For his benefit or mine?”

“God, you’re such a pain in my ass,” she tells him, slumping back in her fancy desk chair. “Why do you do this to me?”

Arthur tries not to laugh because Ariadne’s been his friend longer than Cobol has even existed, and it’s not an accident that they both work there. “You could just ignore it. No one’s making you audit my calls.”

“It’s company policy,” she points out wryly. “It protects the integrity of Cobol Security Systems.”

“Now you’re just quoting corporate jargon,” he accuses, stretching. “I have it under control, don’t worry.”

Ariadne shakes her head and passes him a sheet of paper. “Nash lodged a complaint about your  _ unprofessional  _ _demeanour_ , so ‘under control’ isn’t how I see it.”

“Nash is a gossip,” Arthur dismisses, eyes scanning the report. This should worry him. He should apologize and agree that Eames’ account go to someone else, but the thought of Eames talking to one of Arthur’s colleagues the way he speaks to Arthur has jealousy clawing at his throat. “Tell him you’re dealing with it and move him further from me so I’m not disrupting his exemplar work.”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job, Arthur,” she tells him sharply, taking back the paper. “I don’t want you getting your hopes up because some charismatic stranger is bewitching you over the phone.”

“Bewitching me?” Arthur laughs, getting up to leave. “Ariadne, I’m still me. And I’m a big boy. I can handle flirting with a faceless stranger.”

“Can you?” she grumbles to his back before the door closes.

*******

“Cobol Security Systems. We’re detecting a sensor breach. Do you require emergency assistance?” Arthur drones, barely registering what he’s doing. He’s been nursing a headache since lunch, and now it’s pounding along with the alarm on the other end of the line.

“Charles, my dear, is that you?” a familiar voice says cheerfully and Arthur closes his eyes and sighs. He hadn’t even looked at who he was calling, but of course it’s Eames. Of course it is.

“Do you require emergency assistance?” Arthur repeats, trying to move things along. His vision is doubling, and he’s only fifteen minutes from the end of his shift.

“No,” Eames answers, drawing out the word. “But you sound like you might. What’s wrong, darling?”

Again, Arthur ignores the personal question. Eames has developed a habit of tossing them out, like he’s trying to trick Arthur into answering something about himself, but he doesn’t have the patience for it today.

“Code word?”

“Hot Girl Summer,” Eames tells him, and Arthur would roll his eyes if he wasn’t sure they’d fall right out of his head. “I’m serious, are you okay?”

“Just a headache,” Arthur says to stop him from asking again. “Can you confirm the location of the sensor disruption?”

“Darling, we don’t need to—”

“What  _ we _ need to do is fill out this damn report so I can hang up and go home, okay? That is all we  _ need _ to do,” Arthur bites out, slumping onto his desk. He’s way out of line, but his head feels like it’s a thousand pounds of throbbing napalm and talking takes more energy than he can afford.

He’s met with silence, then the quiet sound of Eames clearing his throat. “Southern perimeter, front garden. Sensor is intact and I require no further assistance. Thank you, Charles.”

The line goes dead and Arthur feels like an asshole for about ten seconds, then he blinks and it sends another wave of agony through his head and he forgets to care about hurting Eames’ feelings.

When he arrives at work the following morning, pretending he doesn’t regret how he left things with Eames, there’s a small brown box on his desk. There’s no postage or return address, just ‘Charles’ printed in black sharpie on the top. Inside are three boxes of tea, an essential oil applicator, and a lavender bath bomb, all claiming to help ease the pain of migraines. Arthur bites his lip, tracing the looping lines of his fake name and wondering if Eames is as good as he seems.

5.

Arthur’s ready for Eames’ call. He’s been ready for three weeks, but he hasn’t made contact. There’s protocol for this sort of thing. It’s anticipated and planned for. He’s well within his rights to lodge a complaint about Eames’ behaviour, could even get his contract cancelled if he wanted. Arthur could make it so he never has to even think about Eames again. And yet, he spent the time since they last spoke scouring Eames’ file and the internet for more information on the man on the other end of the calls he’s come to count on.

“This is Charles from Cobol Security Systems. We’re detecting smoke in your home, do you require emergency assistance?” he asks, his voice strong and sure, worried there may actually be an emergency this time.

“It’s bacon!” Eames shouts above the shrill beeping. “Fuck’s sake, I can’t reach the damn thing to turn it off!”

Arthur types in a code and the alarm goes silent, letting him hear Eames’ panting breaths. It feels thrilling and intimate, and Arthur knows he’s in trouble.

“How short are you that you can’t reach it?” he asks, leaning on the edge of his desk and feeling reckless.

“Taller than you, probably,” Eames grumbles.

“Code word?” Arthur prompts with a smirk.

“Hiddleston,” Eames answers, chuckling when Arthur snorts. “Didn’t know if I’d hear from you again,” Eames confesses quietly.

“You’re the one who disappeared,” he points out. “But setting your house on fire isn’t the best way to get my attention.”

“I was away for work,” Eames explains. “Though about paying a neighbourhood kid to throw a rock through one of my windows just to hear your voice.”

“I didn’t realize house painters went away for work,” he says casually, fishing for a reaction. “You must be good.”

Silence. Then, “Have you been looking into me?”

“Your profession is in your file,” Arthur explains. “But I know for a fact that you’re not taller than me.”

“Do you now?” Eames asks, voice thick with amusement. “What else do you know?”

“That these calls are recorded for posterity,” Arthur says, just to see how he’ll react. “Mr. Eames.”

“That should concern you more than me,” Eames points out.

Arthur smiles. “You should stop tripping your alarms.”

“Why would I do that?” Eames asks, and Arthur desperately wants to know what the smile he can hear in Eames’ voice tastes like. It’s ridiculous. Eames is a virtual stranger, could be a serial killer for all he knows. “I got a new phone.”

Arthur stills and has to clear his voice before continuing. “How nice for you.”

“New number, too.”

“Gonna write it on your hand so you don’t forget it?” Arthur jokes, but it falls flat.

“What if I want to write it on yours?” Eames asks, and it helps that he sounds just as nervous as Arthur.

“I know nothing about you,” Arthur says, which is true. He knows what he could find online, but that’s only the veneer of Eames, not the man beneath it.

“You can,” Eames offers quietly. “If you want.”

_ If you want _ , Arthur thinks, and god help him, he does.

“I need to fill out the report for the alarm,” he sputters, feeling like a coward.

“I understand,” Eames tells him after a pause.

“I don’t think you do,” Arthur tells him, glancing behind him to be sure no one is listening in.

“I like...  _ adventure _ . But it doesn’t come easy for me.”

“That is either a terrible or brilliant euphemism,” Eames says, and Arthur laughs, the tension inside him breaking.

Arthur sighs. “ _ You’re _ terrible.”

“You’re brilliant,” Eames counters, the softness of the words warming Arthur’s heart. “You’ll let me know if you need my new number, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, grinning at his screen.

“We’ll speak again soon, darling,” Eames promises and hangs up. Arthur completely forgets to finish his report.

Ariadne sends him a memo reminding him of the company policy of fraternizing with clients, but she attaches the picture of burnt bacon Eames sent in and Arthur laughs so loud he gets three new complaints.

  
  


6.

Ariadne moves his work space into the corner and takes away all his accounts that aren’t Eames. He now spends his work days alone with his back to everyone else, auditing their reports. Arthur can’t help but laugh at her lack of subtlety. The other workers give him a wide berth, like they think associating with him will reflect poorly on them, which is no doubt exactly what Ariadne intended. 

On the weekend, goes over all the information he’s gathered on Eames. His address is in Lake Bluff, about forty minutes from where Arthur is currently sitting in his underwear. The house itself is listed as a four bedroom, two-storey brick structure, built in 1927. The neighbourhood is pleasant, with the houses spaced enough to provide privacy, but close enough to keep the community feel Lake Bluff is known for. It’s nice, Arthur thinks. He wonders what it’s like for Eames to have something he can make completely his own. He imagines what the inside of Eames’ house looks like, that style of furniture he chose, what dishes he picked out. 

Eames drives a green 1971 Ford Bronco Arthur finds charming, but the only photos he can find are of his passport and driver’s license, which are equally terrible. Arthur prints them out anyway, carefully storing them in his wallet and telling himself it’s not creepy if the other person gives you permission to do it.

Eames is five years older than Arthur and moved from England to Chicago thirteen years ago when his parents split up. He owns his own business, desperately needs someone to update his website, and has a five star rating on Yelp.

Arthur stops when he realizes there’s an easier way to go about this. He could ask Eames.

He dials the number before he can talk himself out of it, knowing the digits by heart. Eames picks up with a gruff ‘hello’ on the third ring.

“You didn’t give me your new number,” Arthur says in a rush, his heart beating a maddening tattoo.

“Charles?” Eames asks, clearly shocked. 

“Arthur, he corrects, grinning to himself. “My real name is Arthur.”

“Arthur,” Eames repeats, trying it out. “You’re not calling from work, Arthur.”

“You said I could know more about you,” he presses on. “If I wanted to.”

“I did,” Eames agrees.

“I want.”

“Me too, darling,” Eames breathes. “ _ Me too _ .”

“I stalked you online and I can be there in an hour,” he offers, fingers tingling with excitement. “Pick up some sandwiches and…”

“And?” Eames prompts.

Arthur flushes and closes his eyes at the possibilities. “ _ And _ .”

****

A little over an hour later, Arthur parks outside Eames’ place, hands shaking. It’s the shabbiest house on the street, but it’s clear Eames is fixing it up. There’s lumber stacked in the yard and scaffolding along the far side. The curtain in the front window twitches as Arthur exits the car, a Steingold’s bag in hand.

Eames appears on the doorstep, the beautiful reality of him making Arthur stumble and shake. 

“You’re here,” Eames says, wonder and dismay written all over his face.

“You promised me adventure,” Arthur says with a shrug.

Eames laughs, his entire face lighting up, and Arthur falls a little more in love. Eames comes down the steps to stand in front of him. “I want to hug you. Can I hug you?”

“I, I think I’d like that,” Arthur confesses.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Eames breathes against his hair, arms tight around him. “Is it okay that you’re here? I don’t want to get you in trouble at work.”

Arthur laughs, work being the absolute least of his concerns. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s hard, if I’m being honest,” Eames confesses, eyes roaming over Arthur’s face like he can’t get enough.

“That’s rather forward,” Arthur teases, pleased when the tips of Eames’ ears go red.

Eames rolls his eyes and takes Arthur’s hand. “Worrying is hard. With you here.”

It’s Arthur’s turn to flush, and he squeezes Eames’ hand. “That sounds like an invitation to stay.”

“You won’t do that,” Eames whispers, like he’s certain. “People don’t do that.”

Arthur cups Eames’ jaw, stroking his thumb over his stubbled cheek. He leans in to brush a soft kiss to the corner of Eames’ mouth. “Watch me.”


End file.
